The Estate Bench

 The iron wooden bench,

Facing the decrepit bookmakers

And smelly newsagents,

Sits solitary on the estate’s square.

It is strewn with graffiti

And carved with memorabilia –

Etched with words of youthful

Love, which would inevitably end

With a teenage pregnancy –

 

This bench,

This worn chipped seat,

Has played host to numerous

Occupants and dealers –

It has seen a million faces

Of myriad features,

Has seated a thousand paupers

And wanna be gangsters –

They have all passed by it,

It has seen it all –

 

It has acted as a rest point

For the elderly and disabled,

As they catch their breath

And count and plan

The next elaborate step

On their journey across the square,

Destination the bookies

To place on a bet,

Or the rank stinking shop

To get a paper, f**s or beer…

 

I take out my handkerchief

And wipe away the small rain

Still evident upon the bench’s

Tatty damaged frame –

And then I sit –

We sat here in our youth –

We laughed here in our teens –

We all moved on

Some of us don’t speak –

 

Some are dead,

Some are inside –

Some studied hard,

And gained a better life –

 

We drank lager from cans,

Puffed on strong joints –

Kissed girls we didn’t respect

Under blotted moon light –

Showed off our new trainers

Bragged about fights,

Dreamed about ambition

Told unbelievable lies –

 

I get up from my reminiscence,

And four youngsters approach me –

They have just been in the shop,

One of them holds lager cans

Another red Rizla,

I step to one side

They all say “All right,”

I nod in acknowledgement

I see my youth in their eyes…